The Unholy Triangle
by mariamayy
Summary: What happens when your two best friends fall in love...with each other? A Brittana love story with a Faberry twist at the end.
1. Chapter 1

The host stood at his podium under the pink-and-yellow neon arch and surveyed the three girls who had just come through the door. Brittany Pierce stepped forward and gave him a huge smile.

"Fabray," she said. "Two o'clock birthday party."

He looked Brittany over, taking in her neon pink beanie and her baby blue T-shirt with a cartoon image of a duck. His eyes passed to the two girls standing behind her. First they settled on the petite, caramel colored Latina with jet-black hair, in a denim skirt and form fitting tank top. Then they fell on the other blonde with hazel colored eyes in a red summer dress. This girl looked around in bafflement.

They were not the five-year-olds the host had been anticipating.

"Just the three of you?" He looked expectant, as if he was hoping Brittany was about to produce a small child from the pocket of her jeans.

"Just us." She said cheerfully

"And who's the…birthday girl?"

"Right here." Brittany reached behind and grabbed the girl in the red dress by the hand. "This is Quinn Fabray. She knows the drill. She had every single one of her birthday parties here from the time she was eight until she was eleven. Didn't you Q?"

Quinn was still looking around her, staring into the huge room that was just beyond the archway-at the video games, the indoor playground, the stage, and the costumed characters that mingled with the hordes of children.

"Okay…" He sighed while grabbing a boxful of small party bags. "Come this way."

He led them through a sea of small running bodies to a booth, cheerfully decorated in red and blue streamers that were covered in pictures of a smiling cartoon mouse. At each place setting there was a festive party hat and a decorative plastic cup. Brittany jumped into one of the seats happily.

"Here are your tokens," the host said, hesitantly giving them each a small yellow mesh bag. "You also get your picture taken in the ball pool. And you get a birthday show. Do you want that before your pizza or after?"

"We don't need to have the show, it's not even my birthday. My birthday's in March, on Saint Patrick's Day." Quinn said while glaring at Brittany across the table.

"It's kind of the rule," the host said apologetically. "You got the party package."

"Oh." A rush of pink crept into Quinn's cheeks. "After, I guess."

"After." He wrote this down on his pad. "Okay. Your pizza will be out in about half an hour. This is your…playtime."

"I'm going to kill you," Quinn whispered across the table as soon as he was gone.

The mechanical mouse behind Brittany's head started playing a song. Brittany did a little seat dance.

"_Death, _Britt. And they will never find your body."

"It was Santana's idea too. We wanted to give you a proper send off to camp."

"It's precollege, not camp," Quinn said with a grin.

"Whatever," Brittany replied, with a flip of her hand. She then took the small conical hat from the table and planted it on her head.

"Your turn," she said smiling and handing another one to Quinn.

"Not a chance in hell." Quinn replied with a fold of her arms. Brittany's lip jutted out in a small pout as she looked down.

"Oh what the hell." Santana said as she carefully settled it on top of her silky raven hair. Brittany grinned eagerly.

"If Santana's wearing one you have to." Brittany begged.

Quinn sighed, "Fine. Fine." She reluctantly took the hat and placed it on her head.

"Oh, yeah." Brittany snickered, taking in the effect. "That is sexy. _Sex-hay!_" Brittany looked around with an expression of undiluted pleasure on her face. She pointed to the play area, with its tangle of bright cubes and tubes and plastic webbing. "Everything is as good as I remember it. There's the net where Santana got her hair caught and started crying. And up there in the crawl tube, where those little yellow peepholes are, that's where Rachel Berry _accidentally _kicked me in the nose with her heel and I started to bleed. Good times. Why did we stop coming here?"

"Because we started wearing bras and going to high school?"

Quinn offered, adjusting the thin elastic string that was digging into her chin.

"Rachel gave us the name when we were here," Santana said. "That was good."

"That's right," Quinn said. "Because she was jealous that we were only playing with one another. "

"Yeah, she was comparing us to some kind of evil vortex."

"It was still a good name," Santana protested.

The host returned with what he called a "bottomless" pitcher of soda. Brittany tapped the base and glanced at the host suspiciously as she accepted it. "Does this _bottomless pitcher _also come with a "bottomless" tray of pizza? 'Cause we wants to get our eatin' on." Santana said with a snap of her finger.

"That's going to be you in about three hours," Quinn said to Santana as he hurried away. "Just keep that in mind when one of your customers gives you attitude."

"Attitude?" Santana said, widening her eyes. "_Moi?"_

Brittany started filling all their cups with soda, trying hard to make sure everyone got the same amount of ice.

"You're going to call me every night, screaming." Quinn grinned.

"I know it."

"We're going to be waitresses at a high-class restaurant for adults," Santana said with dignity as she tried to affix her party hat. "Breadstix's Fine Italian Food and Drinks Emporium. Conveniently located in the same shopping center as Wal-Mart and Home Depot. The best Lima has to offer."

"We have to wear name tags, " Brittany said, passing Quinn the first cup. "I'm going to decorate mine with rainbows and unicorns that way all my customers will remember me." Santana gave Brittany a knowingly warm smile.

"Britt, I don't think they'll actually allow you to—Ouch!" Quinn rubbed her side where Santana had _accidentally _bumped her elbow against.

A girl about their age with two long braids and a Polaroid camera came over to the table. She had a stiff, straight smile that must have come from endless hours of being around swarms of screaming children- the kind of smile that looked like it might require muscle relaxants to uncurl.

"Ready for your picture?" she asked cheerfully.

Brittany bounced out of her seat and hurried toward the giant pen of colored balls. Santana gave Quinn a gentle nudge out of the booth. Brittany was already sitting on a plastic tree stump, pulling off her red sneakers. Santana untied her boots. They both stepped over the short wall into the balls. Quinn went to follow, but the girl with the camera stopped her.

"You have to take your shoes off," she said.

"They're just flip-flops," Quinn replied.

The girl pointed to a sign that read: BE COOL, NO SHOES IN THE POOL!

"I have to go in there with bare feet?" Quinn asked.

"That's the rule!" The girl smiled brightly at this, as if she were telling Quinn that she'd just won a pony.

Quinn kicked off the flip-flops and stepped gingerly into the pit, feeling the cool tarp under her toes. The balls came to a spot halfway up her thigh. Since she was wearing a dress, it was very difficult for her to move and keep her balance. She had to lean forward, holding her arms out in front of her, mummy style. Santana was having similar problems in her skirt. Brittany was having no problem at all. She had gone in deep, almost to the far side. A few children glanced at her with baffled expressions, wondering why their zone had been invaded by this _older person._

Quinn waded a bit farther in toward her, cringing with every step.

"I feel something wet," she whined.

"Probably just soda or something." Santana said with an evil grin.

"Since we're all in here, we're doing Triangle Power!" Brittany shouted.

"I am not doing Triangle Power." Santana warned.

"We're in a _ball pool, _and now you're worried about looking stupid? Triangle off!" Brittany shouted enthusiastically again.

Santana sloshed her way over. They arranged themselves in a triangle pattern and took hands.

"Okay," Quinn said, looking at each of them. "We need the power to get through ten weeks apart. I need the strength of mind to get through this program and kick ass. San, what do you need?"

"Let's see," Santana said, "It probably would be good if I didn't kill any customers, so I need some help with my people skills."

"Good." Quinn nodded. "Britt?"

"I want Lord Tubbington to quit smoking."

"All right," Quinn said, "so we call on the power of the Triangle. Everybody say it with me."

Even though they hadn't chanted it in years, no one needed reminding of the words:

_Look at us, we are three_

_ Quinn, Santana, and there's Brittany_

_ Shout it loud, then shout it louder_

_ Shout it out, Triangle Power!_

"Okay!" the girl said. "Everyone ready?"

"Do it!" Brittany called.

"Smile and look at my hand!" She had put on a mouse puppet and was holding it next to the camera.

"Beautiful," Brittany whispered.

The Polaroid coughed out a picture. The girl quickly inserted it into a glossy card with four punched-out corners. Quinn carefully made her way back out of the pit.

"You love us," Santana said, jogging over and throwing her arm over Quinn's shoulders.

"Remember, San." Quinn was getting caught up in all the nostalgia. "The last time we were here, we were playing Spice Girls. That was our girl-power mantra."

Santana narrowed her eyes. She prided herself on her taste in music and hated to be reminded of things like that.

"I was juvenile then," she said. "My record has been cleared, and the spirit of Amy Winehouse has purified my soul."

"Be good or I'll tell everyone how you used to do that dance to 'Spice Up Your Life'. I'll bet the guys on the football team would love to know that."

"At least you got to switch," Quinn said. "I always had to play Scary. Make the bossy girl play Scary."

"San switched too."

Santana was still very consciously not acknowledging this conversation.

"She was better as Posh," Quinn said to Brittany. "It was embarrassing to have a Sporty Spice who couldn't do a cartwheel. But she could do that little Posh walk."

"I don't remember any of this," Santana said. "You must be thinking of someone else."

"If you wanna be my lover, you gotta get with my friends…" Quinn sang.

"It's going to be _so sad _when you leave." Santana said sarcastically.

"You miss me already," Quinn said, throwing her arms around Santana's neck. "Don't you?"

Even the joking about Quinn's leaving was too much for Brittany. She got out of the ball pool.

"See what you did?" Santana said, though she didn't really look so happy herself. "Don't you know she's going to be crying on my shoulder for the next ten weeks? You're going to have to stay."

"It'll be nothing," Quinn said, continuing her careful walk across the frightening tarp. She couldn't let herself get upset. "You won't even notice I'm gone."

Two hours later Quinn was back in her room at home, gazing at the suitcases sitting open on her bedroom floor. She double-checked the color-coded Post-it notes that lined the edge of her desk, each one detailing a certain type of item: exercise clothes, casual clothing, dress clothing, sleepwear, underwear, sheets, and towels. Everything was accounted for and had been packed in space-saver bags in between layers of dryer sheets. All of her toiletries were sealed up in Ziploc bags.

She poked into her carry-on and examined her computer and cords, her phone, her charger, her iPod, gum to chew on takeoff and landing, the photo from the ball pool that afternoon. Everything was exactly where it was supposed to be; just like the last four times she'd checked.

Quinn sat on the edge of her neatly made bed and looked around her room. She didn't want to touch anything, as she'd spent several hours cleaning and arranging it so that everything would be in perfect order on her return. She had Endusted, vacuumed, and Windexed. Her

shades were lowered, making the room dark. It was as if the place had been prepared for some stranger who was coming to stay.

There was a knock on her door. Her mother poked her head in.

"All right," she said. "You're confirmed. The flight's on time."

"Great."

"Nervous?"

"No," Quinn lied.

"Ready to go to dinner?"

Quinn nodded. It was all happening now. An early dinner. An hour-long car ride to Dayton. A flight from Dayton to New Haven. Once there she would have to find her contact from the program at the airport. She'd planned for this moment for months, yet she felt like it was sneaking up on her now, tearing her away from her mother, her bedroom carpet, her bed, and her two best friends. She wouldn't have a kitchen to raid whenever she felt like it. She wouldn't have a private bathroom. She wasn't even going to know anyone.

She wished her dad could be here, but he was traveling on business. And Santana and Brittany were at orientation for their new job.

_You're being such a baby, _Quinn told herself. _Everything's going to be fine. It's just until August._

She stood up, pulled on her denim jacket, and grabbed her second suitcase.


	2. Chapter 2

The Emil Watts Summer Program for High School Leaders wasn't actually run by Yale University, it was just attached to the school during the summer. The students lived in Yale dorms and used Yale classrooms and the Yale library, but the program's organizers constantly made it clear that Yale was merely the host—as if the **EWSPFHSL **(pronounced "Oohspuffhisill") was some kind of parasite living in the belly of this great center of learning.

There was an unceasing cycle of orientation activities lectures, a library tour, a mass trip to the bookstore for textbooks, well-organized games of Twister in the dorm lounge. Every morning the students took statistics and microeconomics, the mandatory college-credit classes. Every afternoon was spent in a rotating series of seminars and discussions on government, multicultural issues, leadership techniques, current events, and effective writing skills.

In fact, Quinn barely had time to get homesick. Soon the gothic-style buildings, the large oak trees, and the chilly evening breezes were all pleasantly familiar. The only thing she couldn't get used to was her roommate, Kitty. Kitty came from Georgia and supposedly ran six different organizations at her school. She spent her time in incredibly odd ways, like practicing back bends for half an hour at a stretch or nibbling at the corks that she kept in a bag on her desk. She'd down a few caffeine pills with a can of Red Bull and then spend strung-out hours talking on her cell phone, chomping away on a cork, wearing only the tiniest pair of lingerie shorts and a low-cut tank top. This was her minor concession to wearing some clothing while she was in the room-she always slept naked.

At this moment, late on a Tuesday night of the second week, Kitty was sitting on her bed, considering a large, deeply ripe avocado. Quinn didn't know where she'd gotten it; it was just the kind of thing that Kitty turned up with when she had enough stimulants in her system. She focused her clip lamp on it and stared at it as if it contained the secrets of the universe. Her foot tapped furiously on the metal bed frame and she scratched compulsively at her neck. Quinn was sure ribbons of skin were about to come streaming down on the mattress.

"Hey, Quinn?"

Quinn didn't look up from her microeconomics textbook.

"Yeah?"

"What are you?" _Tap, tap, tap, tap. Scratch, scratch, scratch._

"What?" Quinn asked.

"What's you…heritage?"

Since her mother was German and her father was Russian, no one ever knew where to place Quinn on the spectrum.

"Swedish," Quinn said.

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"On both sides?"

"Yeah."

Kitty thought this over for a moment, then jumped off her bed and took off running down the hall. Quinn could hear her bare feet smacking the linoleum. Since she was sitting cross-legged, the backs of her knees were getting too warm and the heavy book was growing uncomfortable. Quinn shoved it off her lap and stretch out her legs. Then she flopped down on her back and threw her legs up against the wall and stared at her toes. It took her a minute to realize that someone was standing in her doorway staring at her. She tilted her head back to get an upside-down view.

The guy in the doorway was Joe Hart, a hard-core environmentalist from Vermont. His room was down the hall from Quinn's, and from a few glances through the open door, she saw that he lived with all the flamboyance of a monk. He'd brought only a bike, books and a guitar, some special environmentally safe detergent and light bulbs, and a small bag of clothes. He generally kept to himself and could usually be found sitting on his bed, reading, or strumming lightly on the guitar and humming softly. Even when the whole hall would go together for meals, he often sat at the end of a table and read the little laminated menu tents over and over.

"Sorry," he said.

"For what?" Quinn slid her legs down and went back to her cross-legged position. "Come on in."

"Quinn?" he said. "It's Quinn, right?"

She nodded.

"My computer is going crazy," he said. "The battery or…I don't know. Can I use your computer to check my e-mail for a second? I'm waiting for a message. There's this thing we've been doing for the Savage Rapids Dam on the Rogue River and…it would take a long time to explain."

He spoke quickly, in an insistent mumble.

"Don't worry about it," Quinn said, waving a hand in the direction of her computer. "It's no problem."

Quinn pulled the book back onto her lap. Out of the corner of her eye, though, she watched him. Joe had a strong, slim build, probably from his constant biking. The red T-shirt he had on had bled out in the wash and had a few small holes, and his long dark brown dreadlocks made him look like a modern day pirate. He typed at full speed without looking at the keyboard.

Suddenly there was an enormous boom from down the hall. Before Quinn and Joe could get up to see what happened, Kitty swung through the door and shut it behind her.

"Did you hear that?" she gushed.

"Everyone heard that," Quinn said. "What was it?"

"I put it in the microwave." Kitty laughed. "It blew up."

"Your avocado?"

Joe looked at Quinn in confusion.

"She had an avocado," Quinn explained. "I guess she blew it up."

"I did." Kitty belly flopped onto her bed, which gave a threatening creak. Joe shot a glance to Quinn before going back to his typing.

"You're Joe, right?" Kitty asked.

"Yep."

"You're like a nature boy, right? And also super religious. Are you with Greenpeace or something?"

"No. Smaller group. We work with them, though. What do you do?"

"Oh, you know." Kitty sprawled herself over the bed and started braiding her hair loosely. "Food drives, stuff like that. Sort or. I lied about half the stuff on my application. They don't care, anyway, as long as you pay. It's all bullshit. You want a Red Bull?"

"No thanks."

Kitty remembered her manners and reached down into her mini-fridge and halfheartedly offered one to Quinn as well. Quinn shook her head. She didn't really feel the need to increase the number of hours she was awake with her roommate.

Joe typed. Kitty braided. Quinn watched her visitor out of the corner of her eye. He had a deep tan and just a bit of a shadow on his chin, and his face was becoming more and more intent on the screen. Then his fingers stopped moving on the keys and he turned around slowly.

"What's bullshit?" he asked.

"This. Schools. Admissions are all bullshit," Kitty said, clearly bored by the discussion already. "Schools just want money. Give them money, they let you come. Get some bullshit recommendations. Whatever."

Joe regarded Kitty with a curious cock of the head. Quinn, however, had to step in. She _had_ to.

"It's not bullshit," she said. "I do everything I put on my application, and I'm here to learn how to run things."

"Oh," Kitty replied. She seemed completely content with her own thoughts; the opinions of others didn't affect her at all. She dropped the braid and let it unravel, then she sprang up, tugged her tiny shorts into place, and flat-footed it out into the hall.

Quinn jumped off of her own bed and firmly shut the door. She could feel her pulse racing.

"I'm not going to make it," she said. "I can't live with her for nine more weeks. Can we switch rooms?"

"Some people are like that," Joe replied.

"You mean assholes?"

"The thing is," he went on, "if you let it get to you, you can never get anything done. But you can come down anytime, if you want to escape."

"Thanks."

He turned back around to his e-mail. Quinn settled herself back down to reading.

Joe suddenly interested her a lot. Maybe it was because he had expressed a mutual dislike of Kitty. Maybe it was because he seemed real-from his conversation, right down to his worn-out clothes. Quinn couldn't even remember the last _real_ conversation she had with Finn or Puck that didn't involve football or making out.

He thanked her quietly when he was done, and then gave another quick glance at Quinn before smiling and backing out the door.

Later on, as she walked down to the bathroom, she passed Joe in the small kitchen nook. He had the door to the microwave open and was using a piece of cardboard to scrape out the green slime that coated the already nasty interior. She stopped and watched him, but his head was actually in the microwave, so he didn't notice. There was a bottle of some kind of environmentally friendly orange cleaner on the counter, which Quinn guessed was his.

She hadn't liked what Kitty had done, but it hadn't occurred to her to clean the mess up, either. In fact, in a whole hall full of leaders and activists, Teen Jesus as many liked to call him, Joe was the only one who appeared to care about the fate of the cleaning people.

**June 29**

**TO: BrittBritt; Quinn**

**FROM: Snix**

Our manager, Steve, gave me my first point today because some people complained that I ignored them. (Eight points and you're fired. Either that or you get Valuable Prizes.)

I AM THE VERY FIRST BREADSTIX EMPLOYEE TO GET POINTS! I WIN!

Later on I caught Steve sitting out back by the Dumpster reading _PC Gamer_ on his break. I had a cigarette, and he gave me one of those "ew, you smoke?" kind of looks. So I gave him one of those "sex with your Sims girlfriend doesn't count" kind of looks back.

**June 30**

**TO: Snix; BrittBritt**

**FROM: Quinn**

You know, on TV the people you fight with are always the people you end up dating. (;

Speaking of, there's this guy on my hall who's either v. cute and cool or totally out of his mind. I can't decide which. I think living with Strange Kitty is affecting my idea of what "normal" means.

**June 30**

**TO: Quinn; Snix**

**FROM: BrittBritt**

Ooh! Explain. Who is this guy?

And Steve's not that bad. He let me keep the duck sticker on my nametag.

**July 1**

**TO: Snix; BrittBritt**

**FROM: Quinn**

His name is Joe Hart. He's kind of very different from me, sort of an eco-warrior but really, really nice. We study together a lot now. He works really hard-harder than pretty much anyone else here. He doesn't hang out or watch TV or anything. When he's not doing work, I think he sits in his room and coordinates an environmental campaign or has mini jam sessions on his guitar.

I am getting used to the Birks and the hemp shorts and the dreadlocks because under all that he is seriously handsome and not the goonish handsome you see in a lot of guys. He's a delicate, like, even refined handsome. He's way healthy and rides around on his bike all the time, so he's got the biker legs going on.

This is really weird to me. I never thought I would like a guy who is so crunchy-not that I like him. I'm just kind of… intrigued.

Okay. Go ahead, San. Insert comment here.

**July 1**

**TO: BrittBritt; Quinn**

**FROM: Snix**

I smell a sitcom! _Goonish handsome _seriously Quinn what era are you from?


	3. Chapter 3

It took Santana about a week to conclude that her entire job at Breadstix consisted of (1) lying and (2) selling. That was it. Lie and then sell. It was kind of fascinating to watch the whole process. She felt like she had the smoking gun on the whole conspiracy of life.

First of all, the Breadstix ads stressed that people were supposed to come and sit and stay for a long time, enjoying the warm Italian hospitality. This was the first big lie that Santana uncovered. One of the main issues emphasized in training was that she was selling experience, not product, which was some weird way of saying that she was supposed to entertain people. She was supposed to be cheerful and friendly, as if she actually _lived _at Breadstix and the people at her table were unexpected but welcome guests in her living room. At the same time, she was told she had to get people out the door the _minute_ they stopped ordering. If someone turned down a dessert or another round of drinks-_bam!_ -_-_she was to drop that check.

Then there was the selling. The entire existence of Breadstix seemed to depend on appetizers, desserts, and frozen drinks-and these were the things she had to push. When people first sat down, she was supposed to interest them in some soup and salads. And when they were done, after Santana cleared away the plates of pesto sauce from the pasta and the remains of the meat balls, it was time to put her hands on her hips and say, "Okay. I know somebody wants dessert!" She should have just passed out the phone number of a good cardiologist.

Just to make things a little more unpleasant, management kept a scoreboard in the staff changing room (a hallway with some boxes in it), charting exactly how much money every server made each shift. Most of the guys, she noticed, got really competitive about it, like selling ravioli bites and snow peach flavored tea was some kind of _sport_ that required skill and prowess. Santana saw it as badgering people to buy things she didn't feel like waiting for at the bar all night, so she didn't bother too much. She felt that her soft stance on the endless breadstick issue allowed her to keep a little bit of her dignity, which was rapidly eroding because of the very worst part of her job: the birthday jig band.

There was no way Santana could have known that by answering "yes" to the bizarre question "Can you sing, play the piano or accordion?" on her job application, she would commit herself to becoming one of the official-and few- members of Breadstix's Birthday Jig Band. She soon came to the conclusion that her glee club participation and her smoking hot body were probably the only reason she was hired in the first place, since she didn't exactly seem to have the warm and friendly personality that Breadstix's was looking for. That was all Brittany. Brittany, with her bubbly and contagious personality. Brittany with her long soft blonde hair and crystal blue eyes that were warm and inviting. Brittany was perfect for this job. Santana was abruptly pulled from her thoughts when she was called into action when she heard a whooping noise and then the heavy beat of a mechanical bass drum that was mounted on the wall by the front vestibule.

She was hearing it right now, as a matter of fact. This was Breadstix's Birthday Jig Alert.

Santana swerved around a busboy carrying a heavy load of dirty dishes and ducked into the pantry. If she could just slip through and get out the fire door fast enough, she could claim she was taking her five-minute break and never heard the alert.

Brittany was right on her heels. Santana stuck herself in the corner, next to the ice cream freezer, and jammed her hands into her apron pockets.

"I'm not doing it this time," she said under her breath.

"But this one's my table," Brittany pleaded. And with that small pout Santana couldn't resist.

"I'll make you a deal."

"What?"

"Come with me to Puck's tonight," Santana said.

The alert was still banging and whooping in the background. Brittany glanced through the doorway nervously and looked at the group of other servers, who were clumping together and all looking a little pained at the thought of having to sing.

"Come on Britt-Britt…" Santana scrunched up her face. "You know you want to."

Big parties always freaked Brittany out, and she tried to get out of them whenever she could. But now that Santana had Brittany on her own, she'd found that she had a lot of leverage. It had gotten incredibly easy to convince Brittany to do things in the last week or so, now that Quinn wasn't around to protect her.

"I guess…" Brittany said.

"Say you promise."

"I…promise"

Santana held up an extended pinky to Brittany. She looked at it for a second and then latched hers with Santana's. Santana gave her a quick squeeze.

"Okay." Santana said. "Let's go."

Brittany borrowed Santana's lighter to light the candles on a small chocolate cake that was waiting on the prep counter. Santana headed out onto the floor and took her place in front of the microphone on a small raised platform in a corner of the room. Santana began belting out the tune automatically, keeping her eyes trained on Brittany as she brought out the cake. The other servers fell in behind her, letting her lead them to the birthday table. The small glow from the candles illuminated Brittany's face with such delicacy. Her baby blue eyes sparkled as she reached the table. You could always tell which one it was by looking for someone trying to slide down out of sight or covering his or her face with a pair of hands. Sure enough, there was a group of women in one of the booths, and one was slinking down, looking liker her cover in the Witness Protection Program had just been blown.

All the servers locked arms and joined Santana in singing. When it was over, all the singers skittered away as quickly as possible, like roaches when the lights come on.

Back in the safety of the pantry, Santana grabbed a dessert fork and pressed it into Brittany's hand.

"If I have to do that again," Santana said, "I want you to kill me with this."

"You can do me too," said a voice behind them.

Brittany and Santana turned. One of the other servers had come in and was slouching against the wall, demonstrating his utter contempt for the official birthday jig. He was tall but had a young-looking face. His blonde hair had overgrown a bit, sweeping down over his high forehead in a thick swag that he kept pushing back with his hand. What really stood out, though, were his lips, which were a little two big for his face. They actually looked like he could fit at least ten tennis balls.

"Kill me, I mean," he added, after a moment's thought on his remark. "I trained nights, and they were even worse. We did the song about a dozen times every shift. I'm not kidding."

He leaned forward and stared at the nametag pinned to Brittany's white-collared shirt.

"It that a duck?" he said.

"Yes thank you. I'm Brittany," Brittany said. "This is Santana."

He glanced over and looked at Santana giving her a friendly smile.

"It's nice to meet you both. I just moved her about two weeks ago with my family."

Santana leaned forward to read his tag.

"You're Sam?"

"Sam Evans. Jack Ryan, you've just boarded the Red October." He said in a deep booming voice. Brittany and Santana looked at one another and then back at Sam.

"Sean Connery," he said. "I like to do impressions."

"Uh-huh." Santana said already bored with him.

Though he made occasional attempts to turn his head and look in Santana's direction, Sam's attention was really on Brittany. This was nothing new to Santana. All guys looked at Brittany. She was candylike, adorable. They were usually a little intimidated by Santana because she was loud and assertive and she ran everything. They took Santana as a challenge. With Brittany, though, guys developed instantaneous, epic crushes-the kind that caused them to want to iron their clothes and listen to lyrics of slow songs.

The kitchen bell rang.

"Thirty-nine up," yelled a voice from somewhere behind a small opening. Two plates of bruschetta were thrown down under the heat lamps. Sam pried himself from the wall and got the two plates. He took them over to the prep counter. He grabbed a tub from the cabinet, unscrewed the lid, and poured some of the contents into two condiment cups. It oozed out in thick chunky tomato chunks.

When Sam had taken his plates out to the floor, Santana reached over and retrieved her lighter from the front pocket of Brittany's apron.

"Looks like you have a new one," she said.

"A new what?"

Santana did her best imitation of Sam leaning in and looking at Brittany's duck sticker at a very close range.

"Shut up," Brittany said. Giving Santana a slight nudge.

"What? He's cute. He kind of looks like he's one of those guys who keeps going in Boy Scouts until he's legal."

"He's fine. He seems nice."

"Oh, you're not interested."

"In…what?"

"What kind of sign do you need?" Santana said, laughing. She grabbed Brittany and wrapped her arms around her, coming in close to her face. "I love you, Brittany Pierce. Can't you see I love you?"

One of the cooks peered through the narrow kitchen window.

"Nice!" he said. "You guys dating?"

"You wish," Santana said over her shoulder. Brittany still hung limply in her arms.

"I _do_ wish."

"Tell you what, we'll kiss for ten bucks."

"Ten bucks?"

Santana nodded. She glanced at Brittany, who was looking at Santana with amazing calmness.

The cook was going through his pockets.

"I have…six," he said.

"Sorry."

"Hold on, hold on," he said, laughing. "I think I can get four more."

"Onetime offer," Santana said sternly.

"Damn." He slid over a large piece of lasagna and spaghetti. "Forty-six."

Santana released Brittany, who stood there, seeming a little baffled.

"I'd better feed my people." Santana grabbed the two plates. "But you promised, remember?"

"I remember."

"No take backs."

Santana winked to the cook, who was still peering through the window, his face glowing an eerie red under the heat lamp.

"Stay back," she said, nodding at Brittany. "She's mine, and I have claws."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: **First I want to say thank you to all the positive reviews I've received. I'm glad y'all are enjoying it! Second I would like to quickly clear some things up...this is a Brittana love story. However I really want to somehow incorporate a little Faberry so look out for that. Don't worry there won't be any Bram at all. Thanks again (:

That night they were in a yard behind an old house somewhere near Lima Heights Adjacent. Brittany had no idea whose house it was-it was one of the party places that just seem permanently empty and that no one claims to own. That is until Puck struts in and acts like he owns the place. There were people dancing on a patch of dead grass close to the house, right by the three coolers that constituted the bar. The party had only been going on for an hour, and already the whole lawn smelled like old beer.

Brittany never really liked going to parties. Whenever she went to these types of parties she was almost always left alone. Quinn would go off with Finn, Santana with Puck, which left Brittany to join the dance floor and grind up against sweaty strangers. And if she was in the mood, make out with some random guy who told her she looked hot. She would much rather spend her summer nights and weekends curled up with Quinn and Santana watching a movie, while they stuffed their faces with junk food. Or dancing alone in her room with her iPod on blast and Lord Tubbington passing judgmental glances once in awhile. But because it was a promise she made to Santana, she couldn't break it-no matter how lame the party was or how terrible the music.

Brittany usually didn't drink, mostly because she usually ended up loosing several layers of clothing. But tonight she felt like it. It seemed like the only thing to do. Puck's party game was definitely going to drop some points. Santana had enthusiastically gone off to the bar to get them something. Now Brittany was just stuck in a loud place, backed up against a wall by a crowd of people and with a very drunk-looking guy heading right for her. Brittany scanned the yard for Santana, but she was lost in the crowd somewhere.

"What's you name?"

The guy had made it across the yard and was leaning into Brittany's face.

"Brittany."

"Bethany?"

Brittany didn't bother to correct him.

"Want a drink?" the guy screamed.

"My friend is getting me one."

"What?"

At that moment there was a minor miracle. Santana pushed her way back through the crowd with several small paper cups in her hands. Seeing Brittany's plight, she shot her a "do you want to talk to this guy?" look. Brittany widened her eyes to show that she didn't.

Santana came over and stood next to the guy, fixing him with a hard stare. People didn't mess with Santana when she had her bitch face on and her head cocked slightly. She looked very fierce. The guy threw Brittany a puzzled look. Santana passed some of the cups she had collected over to Brittany.

"Hey," Santana said, using her free hand to take the guy's empty cup and toss it over toward the bushes. "Go fetch."

The guy stared at Santana, looking like he was trying to gauge how much of a problem she might present, then walked away.

Brittany would never be as cool as Santana. Ever.

"Brought you a lemon drop," Santana said. "You'll like it. It's sweet. And these are Jell-O shots." She showed Brittany a few cups she had pinched between her fingers.

As the crowd shifted past them, Santana and Brittany were pressed flat against the outer wall of the basement.

"This is going to be fun," Santana said, trying to get her arm free enough to get her drink to her lips. "I don't even know who half of these people are."

"Hey," Brittany said. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"This afternoon, would you have done it?"

"What? The thing in the pantry?"

Santana was kind of glad Brittany hadn't used the word _kiss_. It would sound way too weird to say out loud.

"Of course," Santana said. "Ten bucks? Why not? Guys are _ridiculous_ that way."

Brittany found herself sinking inside a bit at this response.

"Would that have freaked you out?" Santana asked.

"No," Brittany said, trying to smile. "It would have been funny."

"Right," Santana said. She suddenly developed an intense curiosity about her Jell-O shot. She stared deeply into the tiny cup, wiggling it a bit.

"What do I do with this?" Brittany asked, holding up her cup.

"Just toss it back, like this." Santana tilted back her cup. Brittany did the same. The lump of gelatin was slow moving and seemed to take forever to reach her mouth. It burned with alcohol. She held it on her tongue, trying to absorb as much of the taste as possible.

"You never know," Santana said, looking over the crowd. "We could probably get more takers here. More cash, too."

Brittany gulped down the Jell-O. It tickled as it slithered down her throat. She balled the tiny paper cup in her hand.

"You always have takers, though." Santana added.

"What?"

"That guy Sam is going to trail you all summer. I can tell."

"I don't think so."

"You're really not interested?" Santana asked. "Did you see the puppy dog look? What's not to like?"

"I don't know. I just don't."

Santana was looking at her curiously now, trying to figure out what that meant, because Santana always tried to figure out what everything _meant_.

"I'm surprised Puck hasn't come up and started sweet talking you." Brittany said

"Ugh I already saw him. He's busy with some hopeless freshman," Santana said with a flip of her hand. "Guess it's just you and me tonight Britt-Britt." She said giving Brittany a warm smile.

"I want to do another one of these," Brittany said, holding up the crumpled remnants of her cup.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah," Brittany said. "We're here. We might as well drink."

"See? I told Quinn I'd take good care of you," Santana said, obviously pleased.

While Santana made another trip over to the bar, Brittany sat down on the coiled hose that was attached to the wall. Santana's questions made her panic. It would have been nice, after all, if she could have explained why she never went out with guys more than once or why they never made much of an impression on her.

She knew the reason, though she'd never put words to it. It floated up in the back of her consciousness now, buoyed by Jell-O and vodka and the last of the warm evening sun. She found her attention completely focused on the small of Santana's back, just the little strip between the deep maroon of her blouse and the low sling of her jeans. The answer seemed to be written there, on that perfect piece of skin.

Santana had a great back-she'd actually won "best back" when they'd passed judgment when they were ten or eleven. Quinn had the best hair. Brittany had the best legs. Santana had the best back. San had balked at this, saying "best back" was a bogus consolation prize, but she was wrong. Her back was strong. It was flawless. It was the perfect surface.

_Stop thinking_, Brittany told herself, digging around in her crumpled cup for remnants of Jell-O. _Just stop_.


	5. Chapter 5

Later that night Santana leaned against a post of Brittany's white canopy bed and watched as she drunkenly reached for the chest of drawers and missed by several inches. Luckily Santana managed to get Brittany home before Brittany's inner stripper came out.

"You want somethin' to sleep in?" Brittany asked. "I got lots of pajamas."

After several attempts she finally hooked her fingers onto a drawer handle and pulled out a handful of clothing. She then grandly waved Santana toward the remaining heap of cotton and fleece sleepwear. Santana pawed through the offerings for something suitable while Brittany got herself tangled in her own tank top. She'd only removed it halfway before attempting to pull on the T-shirt she planned on sleeping in.

"You need help with that, Britt?" Santana asked.

"No. I got it."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I got it."

Brittany's confusion with her tank top was growing. She was utterly baffled, with two shirts around her neck and one arm in each one.

"Take them both off and start over, Britt."

"Okay."

Brittany carefully freed herself from the tank top, got the T-shirt on (backward, but who cared?), and squirmed out of her denim shorts. Then she tried to put both legs into a single leg space of a pair of pajama pants. It took a few tries, but she eventually managed to get them on correctly and then fall face-first onto the bed.

"See this, San?" she said conspiratorially, holding up a patchwork stuffed flounder that she drew from the folds. "This is the sleepy rainbow fish. He swims you to sleepyland."

"Drink your water, Britt."

"You sleep here," Brittany said, slapping at the empty spot next to her. "Okay?"

"I'm serious. Drink that water."

"Know what I _really_ want right now?" Brittany asked.

"What?"

"Dots."

"Uh-huh." Looking back into the drawer, Santana decided against the pajama bottoms with the smiling unicorns and opted instead for a more subdued plain gray sweatpants. "I'm not sure that's a good idea right now."

"We don't have to get a big box," Brittany said, pulling her hair into a lopsided blonde geyser smack on the top of her head. "We could get one of those medium bags-the ones with the fun sized portions inside. Or two of those. One or two, whatever you want. Or Doritos."

"The water, Brittany."

"Oh my god-or Krispy Kremes!"

Having pulled on the pajama bottoms, Santana now found that the only shirt that didn't look like it belonged to a seven year old was a white tank top with the word Diva written in silver sparkles across the chest. If her own blouse hadn't reeked so badly of smoke, she would have kept it on. Alas, the very fibers were carcinogenic now. Off it went and on went the embarrassing replacement.

"Wanna go to the grocery store and get a seedless watermelon?" Brittany said, with wide, bloodshot eyes.

"No."

"Come on. It has water in it!"

Santana walked over and handed Brittany the large red plastic cup and stood there until Brittany took several large swigs. The hydration seemed to tap out Brittany's energy completely, and she rested her head down against the pillow. Santana walked over to switch off the light. In the ambient light from the streetlamps and a few illegal firecrackers, Brittany's white furniture took on an ethereal glow. The canopy over the bed seemed buoyant, as if it were floating on a gentle, steady current of air.

To make space for herself on the bed, Santana was forced to jettison an entire squad of stuffed animals that were hidden under the sheets. Along with some normal stuffed animals (bears, kittens, and a monkey) Brittany had the rest of the ark in there. There were a lobster, an owl, and anteater, an elephant, a cobra, a beanie stingray, and a bat. There were also nonanimals, like the stuffed happy face and the pink fur ball with eyes.

As Santana sank down under the fluff of the comforter, Brittany flipped over, threw an arm over Santana's waist, and pressed her face into her friend's shoulder.

"San?" she mumbled. "The room is moving."

"That's normal."

"It is?"

"Yep."

"It's going in circles."

"I know."

"San? Why is it doing that?"

"It'll pass."

"You sure?"

"Yep," Santana said, patting Brittany's head gently, "I'm sure."

A Roman candle whizzed and pooped nearby.

"San?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for staying."

"No problem."

Thirty seconds later Brittany was snoring lightly in the crook of Santana's arm. Santana stayed still, not wanting to disturb her. She liked this, just how things were at this exact moment. She caught a whiff of mingling odors of fabric softener, old smoke, and perfume. A cozy smell. She looked down at Brittany's sleeping face. Her hair spread over the pillow so perfectly, you would have thought a stylist had arranged it, like for a conditioner commercial. It would still look good in the morning, Santana could tell. In contrast, when Santana woke up, she would look like she'd been spinning plates on her head all night.

With Brittany, everything was just kind of delicate and perfect all the time, in a goofy kind of way. An endearing way. It was no wonder that you had to get in line to have a crush on her. Who _wouldn't_ have a crush on Brittany? She had universal appeal, like baby seals and koala bears. Santana should have gone ahead this afternoon and kissed her. It would probably have been great.

She'd kind of wanted to do it then. She kind of wanted to do it now.

_What? _

Santana took hold of herself. Never before had she even considered hooking up with another girl, except in the most purely theoretical sense. She wasn't biased. She'd given the issue its due consideration, and up until this moment, in the sexual preference category, her vote had been squarely for guys.

Besides, this was not just some random person she would only see once-this was _Brittany_. Anything she did with Brittany went on the Permanent Record. If this was a bad idea, then the results would be horrific because for the rest of her life she'd have to look at Brittany and know that this _thing_ had passed between them. Yet this also meant Brittany was the very best person to try this experiment with. Here was someone she knew she loved, really and truly and totally. No surprises. No hidden agenda. This was someone she could trust. It would be secret.

And was it so weird, really? Somewhere in Santana's mind there was a thought that nothing truly awful could happen in a white canopy bed, one with a well-worn mattress that dipped in the middle and scooped the two of them together in a soft pocket of cotton sheets and comforter. This was womblike…

Bad, bad, bad comparison. A comparison to be immediately forgotten.

Maybe she should sleep on the floor.

No. The floor was hard and cold. The bed was broken-down soft and perfect. Too good to leave.

She could sleep on the stuffed animals.

Too lumpy. She'd have noses and eyes and ears and beaks in her back all night, which was not recommended by the American Sleep Federation or whoever it was that came up with those ideal mattress guidelines. Neither were extremely soft mattresses, for the matter, but Santana liked them anyway. Especially this one.

She put her face next to Brittany's on the pillow. Brittany was gone, totally insensible. She could put her lips to Brittany's and try this theory out and Brittany would never, ever know.

No. That would be _very creepy_. Besides, it probably wouldn't even tell her much since Brittany would respond with all the passion of a CPR dummy. There was no way Santana could get a true reading.

Santana forcefully shut her eyes, knowing that however awake she felt right now, the alcohol would put her under if she just stayed still. Eventually it worked, but not before Santana had opened her eyes a number of times, hoping to see Brittany looking at her, suddenly awake and encouraging.

There was light now.

Brittany opened her eyes and stared across the pillow at the tuffs of black hair that were inches from her face. She played with the tips of them. This gesture caused Santana to stir. She flipped over and faced Brittany. Her mascara and eyeliner had smudged a bit, giving her vampy eyes.

"You're alive," Santana said, raising an eyebrow. "I'm shocked. How do you feel?"

"Fine. Why?"

"Fine?"

"Maybe a little thirsty."

"I don't believe it," Santana said, rubbing her temples. "It's actually kind of annoying."  
"Sorry." Brittany grinned. "Wanna get up?"

Santana groaned dramatically. "No. Need coffee. Will die. Please help."

"I think we have some downstairs," Brittany said, thinking for a moment. "I'm not sure. I've never made it."

"Be really quite for a few minutes. I'm going to communicate with Starbucks by telepathy."

"Ooh. Get me a chai."

"Chai?" Santana said, looking over in horror.

"I like chai," Brittany said defensively.

"You also keep twelve hundred stuffed animals in your bed," Santana said, nodding at the heaped menagerie. "What does that say?"

"Well, I have to have something to keep me company at night. I don't like sleeping alone."

"What about Tubbs?"

"Lord Tubbington always sneaks out at 12:30 to smoke with his friends. Also, I think he joined a gang."

Santana smirked at Brittany's response. "I guess you got lucky last night, then. A whole live person."

"Right," Brittany said, tucking her head against Santana's on the pillow. "You're more interesting than they are. You talk and everything."

"I never shut up."

"Yes, you do."

"Not much."

"I could make you shut up."

"Oh, yeah?" Santana said, turning her face to Brittany's. "How?"

In a way, Brittany's answer was a surprise to both of them. She simply sealed Santana's lips with her own.

And she was right. That seemed to shut Santana up.


End file.
